


Recovering

by mathmusic8



Category: Redwall Series - Brian Jacques
Genre: Gen, Injury Recovery, Not Beta Read, Seers in Redwall, post-Mossflower setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:27:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25873582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mathmusic8/pseuds/mathmusic8
Summary: After Martin's battle with Tsarmina, he didn't exactly bounce back overnight.
Relationships: Columbine/Gonff (Redwall)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9
Collections: Redwall Fic Month 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [fear the reaper](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15654561) by [ScrivenerSavannah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScrivenerSavannah/pseuds/ScrivenerSavannah). 



Martin did his best to pay attention as Gonff chattered enthusiastically at his bedside. He still had a host of wounds that were fresh and painful, sucking his energy faster than a hare running late for dinner, and it wasn’t unusual for the pain to flare unexpectedly either. When Gonff made him laugh, Martin was soon weeping from the pain—who knew it took so many muscles to laugh? He was propped up on his side since his back was a horrific mess, and that was where the pain was now.

“Ah, ‘m sorry about that, matey,” Gonff apologized, his chubby little face drawn in concern. “Tsarmina really did a number on you, didn’t she?”

Martin grunted in acknowledgement and closed his eyes. “Keep talking, Gonff,” he whispered, moving his face as little as possible to avoid aggravating the scabbed gashes there. “Helps keep my mind off it.”

Gonff’s ears twitched in agitation. “Are y’sure, mate? Germaine and Columbine said to give you a draught of this ‘ere concoction if you’re in pain,” he said, reaching for a bottle of dark green sludge.

With great effort, his back screaming from even the brief movement, Martin reached out and grasped Gonff’s paw. “Please, matey. Tell me about Goody’s pies.”

There was a beat of clear hesitation, in which there was some silent communication—Martin did not like the mind-numbing medicine, even if it did relieve his pain, and Gonff would humor him, for now.

So Gonff spoke of the wide variety of pies he had tasted (and stolen), both from Goody and from other creatures. While he debated upon his list of favorites, he watched Martin bite back groans as the pain came and went like the ebbing of the tide. During a particularly bad spike, Gonff paused his rambling and reached for the bottle.

Again, Martin snatched his paw and shook his head. “The cleanup—!” he gasped in a tight voice, then took a deep breath as the pain seemed to die back down. “Tell me about the cleanup after Kotir was flooded.”

Keeping hold of Martin’s paw, Gonff set it back on his friend’s bed, and Martin flinched and grit his teeth at the motion. Gonff shook his head. “You are in pain, Martin. It’s time for your meds.”

For a moment, Martin glared at Gonff with a fierce light in his eyes, his grip on the mousethief’s paw turning into a vice, but when Gonff gasped at the unexpected crushing of his paw, Martin released him and visibly wilted.

“’m sorry,” he murmured. “Didn’t mean t’ hurt you, Gonff.”

Gonff just shook his paw out and chuckled. “I think I’m used to it by now, you warrior. Even when you’re laid flat, you still don’ know your own strength.” He measured out a portion of the medicine into a beaker the way Columbine had showed him and helped Martin take the draught, laughing at the way Martin’s face screwed up. “Here mate, take a candied chestnut—a little sweetness will clear up the taste.”

Martin munched on the gifted nut gratefully. He noticed Gonff pop a few nuts himself and smiled wryly at him. Gonff caught his eye and winked. “Better you than me, matey. Just the smell o’ that stuff is enough to give me nightmares!”

The medicine was fast-acting, and Martin could feel his pain ebbing further and further away by the second. He sighed unconsciously in relief. If Gonff noticed, he didn’t mention it, just hummed a little tune to himself and tapped his paw rhythmically on the table by Martin’s bed.

“I’d still like to hear how the cleanup went,” Martin said. “How were the vermin dealt with?”

Gonff was sure he had told Martin the full story of the fall of Kotir already, but Martin’s memory had been . . . spotty, of late. “Oh, them? We fished ‘em out of the lake and gave ‘em a dressing down, y’might say. Everybeast was given a pack of food and sent on their merry way,” Gonff said. “Those hares of ours ‘ave set up a patrol to watch out for ‘em, but we’ve not seen a single whisker of ‘em since.”

Martin nodded slowly. “Good. No . . . no pointless bloodshed . . . that’s good . . . .” he murmured, eyelids drooping.

Gonff began singing a gentle little ditty, which transitioned smoothly into a lullaby. Had Martin been stronger, he would have rolled his eyes and stayed awake out of pure stubbornness, but as it was, he slid easily into a deep sleep.

Gonff stayed at his side, deep in thought. Sleep did not come to the little mousethief as easily as it once had. He struggled with nightmares about swans, waterfalls, and fighting searats on a dark, sandy beach. He and Dinny talked about it sometimes, but Dinny’s own nightmares had faded within a few weeks. Gonff’s hadn’t.

Despite the violence of the battles, the grim horror of rescuing a slave ship, and the various other perils he had faced, Gonff’s most recurring nightmares centered on his friend Martin. Of Gonff watching him get cut down in battle on that moonless seashore. Of Gonff finding him too late by the lake. Or sometimes, of Martin bearing down on _him_ with his mighty sword and that terrible red sheen in his eyes. Just thinking about it sent a shudder through the mousethief.

Gonff shook his head and balled his paws into fists. Martin would _never_ hurt him. Even when he was in agony himself just now, he had apologized immediately for simple squeezing Gonff’s paw too hard.

That fear was easy to chase away.

The fear of loss, less so.

Columbine came looking for her husband and found him half slouched onto Martin’s bed, one paw grasping his friend’s paw and the other cushioning his chubby little face on the side of the mattress, finally sleeping peacefully. Columbine smiled, kissed Gonff’s forehead, and quietly went about her work. She changed Martin’s bandages and put fresh herbs and poultices on his wounds with gentle, experienced paws. It must have been several hours since Martin had taken his medicine, however, because he came awake with a moan halfway through her ministrations.

“Who . . . nngh,” he grunted, quickly giving up trying to twist around to see who was working on his back.

“It’s just me, Martin,” Columbine murmured soothingly. “Go back to sleep, if you can.”

Martin just shook his head, shoulders quivering under Columbine’s paws.

“I’m sorry, dear,” she sighed. She worked as quickly as she could, and Martin remained silent until she had finished and walked around the bed so he could see her.

His scabbed face was creased in pain and confusion. “Where am I?” he whispered.

Columbine blinked, but it wasn’t the first time Martin had forgotten. “You’re in Brockhall, Martin. Do you remember who I am?”

His bemused expression deepened. “. . . Gonff’s wife, you’re . . . C-Const—er, no, Corn, no, no Coll . . .” Martin paused and stretched out each syllable, as if he were twisting a stem out of an apple of his memory. “Cooolluuummbine, yes, Columbine!”

A bit of a rocky start, perhaps, but this was better than some of his previous episodes so far—once he’d even forgot Gonff, though it had proven to be a singular occurrence. This time, he even kept his voice lowered so he wouldn’t wake the poor mousethief, who was still grasping his paw even as he slept.

“That’s right, Martin. Do you remember how you were injured?” Columbine asked.

After a brief pause, Martin wordlessly shook his head.

Columbine nodded, unsurprised. “You fought with Tsarmina the Wildcat. You won, but you have many terrible wounds from her claws, particularly on your back.”

Martin nodded. “Aye. That’s where it hurts the most.” He looked around, taking in the room as if for the first time, and visibly relaxed when he saw his sword propped up against the table beside his bed. Previous experience had taught the healers that he was much more cooperative during these bouts of amnesia if his weapon was within sight.

“Are you hungry, Martin?” Columbine asked, recalling his attention to herself.

He smiled sheepishly. “Famished.”

“I’ll bring you a tray from the kitchen,” Columbine said, heading out the door. “I’ll be right back.”

Martin watched her go and then laid there in contemplative silence. Vague memories swirled around in his mind, mostly of battles he had fought, and of Gonff and Columbine. There were other creatures, too, but he could only recall the names and faces that were connected to those two. Dinny was a mole who was also Gonff’s friend, and the three of them been on a long journey together. The Stickle hedgehogs, two parents and four children, were Gonff’s adopted family. Columbine had a mentor named Abbess Germaine, who was the primary healer that had saved Martin’s life. The identity of the other creatures in his mind eluded him.

Columbine returned shortly with a platter bearing a small loaf of hardy nutbread, vegetable soup, soft white cheese, elderberry cordial, and a thick slice of strawberry cream cake. Gonff’s nose twitched and his eyes flew open in an instant. “Phaw, somethin’ in ‘ere smells heavenly!”

Columbine and Martin laughed (Martin only briefly) and Columbine set the tray on the table. “Don’t worry, O husband of mine, there’s plenty enough here for the both of you.”

Gonff jumped to his feet and swept Columbine up in his arms, crying, “O, what a beautiful creature you are, me darling wife, to have remembered your poor husband and spared him a crust o’ bread from your kitchen!”

Giggling, Columbine pushed Gonff back towards Martin. “Oh hush, you great flatterer. I’m putting you in charge of making sure our great warrior eats his share. Think you can do it?”

“I doubt I’ll need help,” Martin said, already tearing into the bread loaf, but no one paid him any mind.

Gonff bowed elegantly. “For you, my dearest flower, I shall be most diligent. This warrior of ours shall eat til he bursts!”

With another laugh and shake of her head, Columbine stepped out of the room.

The moment she was gone, Gonff snatched the bread loaf from Martin’s paws and tore it in half. “Steady on there, Martin, you wouldn’t leave your old matey to starve to death would ye? Of course not! I knew you were a goodbeast, back from the first moment I clapped eyes on ye! Here, now, take your half. Have you ever tried dipping your bread in the soup? Makes ‘em both taste better, I promise. Here now, give it a go.”

They ate and joked and laughed, Gonff making ridiculous excuses to hold Martin’s plates and bowls for him. "Hold up, mate, this is a _wooden_ bowl. Wouldn't want you t'get splinters in those great frogslapper paws of yores.” Martin reached for a spoon, but Gonff held it out of reach. "Nope, sorry mate, this is one of Goody's favorite spoons. Wouldn't want you to crush it. That would cause a terrible fuss—nothing but tears, tears, tears everywhere."

When every last speck and crumb was gone, they each sat back and nursed their beakers of cordial.

Martin rubbed his bulging stomach. “I haven’t felt this full in a while. I’ll have to thank Corn—er, C-Columbine when she gets back.”

Gonff gave Martin a knowing look. “Struggling with names today, matey?”

“Aye,” Martin sighed, looking down at his cup. Ripples from his shaking paw broke up the dark liquid’s surface. “I suppose I’m simply growing old before my time.”

“Nonsense,” Gonff said firmly. “Once you’re all healed up, you’ll be runnin’ around like a young ‘un again, no question.”

Martin sighed and drained the last of his cordial. “I hope so, Gonff. I really, really hope so.”

Gonff took Martin’s empty beaker and tapped him on the nose with it. “You will. So stop worrying about it and tell me how much you remember about our adventure to Salamandastron. Gotta make sure we keep the facts straight, after all. Who knows how many fibs Dinny would spin up if we aren’t keeping him in line with the facts!”

“If anyone’s telling fibs, it’ll be you,” Martin snorted. “Dinny is the noblest creature I have ever met. Keep that in mind when you’re tempted to lead me astray with your tall tales—I know I don’t remember much, but I do remember Dinny’s face when he found out you’d convinced me that we’d taught a flock of pink toadstools how to fly. He was so angry, he nearly turned pink himself.”

Gonff grinned blissfully. “Aye, that was a good day. You were as gullible as a newborn babe for a while there.”

They continued to joke and laugh, and eventually they walked through step by step of their entire history together. It was a familiar exercise by now, but a welcome one all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not new to the series, but I am new to the fandom, so any concrit would be appreciated! I've thoroughly enjoyed what I've seen from the fandom so far!
> 
> As a side note, this is the first time in my entire life that I’ve had to spell out the word "poultices". I may or may not have thought there was an extra few syllables in there somewhere (polustices?). Our brains are so weird haha.
> 
> Feel free to swing by at https://mathmusicred.tumblr.com/ and say hi!


	2. Chapter 2

Martin leaned heavily on Gonff’s paw as they shuffled slowly to the dining hall. Most of the bandages had finally been removed a few days earlier, but the muscles in Martin’s limbs had wasted away after nearly a season of disuse. Each day he grew a little stronger, though there were still some days he was too sore to move. Luckily, today was a good day, physically and mentally. Still, Gonff was running through their usual memory checklist they had come up with, just to be sure.

“Where’d we go after we escaped Kotir?” Gonff asked.

“Skipper took us to Camp Willow,” Martin answered easily. “I’d thought you’d drowned for a second, but you were fine, as always.”

Not only was the checklist good for his memory, it helped Martin get his mind off how slow and weak he felt—they were often passed by some creature or other on an errand, and Martin watched their fluid movements with no small degree of envy.

Thankfully, Gonff quickly distracted him. “Who found the first clue to Salamandastron?”

“I did,” Martin recalled. “That hidden drawer knocked the breath out of me right quick.”

“Better you than me!” Gonff snickered.

Martin shook his head and patted Gonff’s belly. “But you’d hardly have felt it, you great gluttonous lardbarrel.”

Gonff sniffed and twitched his whiskers in indignation “Lardbarrel? Gluttonous? _Me_? You’ve got this all wrong-side-out and sideways, matey! Last I checked, _yore_ the one who’s enjoyed his breakfast in bed for the past season, spoon-fed half the time, too, when you couldn’t be bothered to lift yore own paw!”

“Aye, and who was is that ate two spoonfuls for every bite he fed me?”

“Surely you mean _she_ , Martin ol' fellow. Abbess Germaine is a sneak and a thief, an’ that’s what I’ve always said!”

Martin’s stoic demeanor cracked, and soon he was laughing so hard, he had to sit down right there in the hallway.

Gonff, however, was prepared to drag the joke on a bit further. He eased Martin down and then crouched at his side, feigning confusion. “Aww, c’mon, matey, what’re you sittin’ on the floor for? The chairs in the dining hall ain’t good ‘nuff for you anymore?”

“Gonff, please, I—hahahaha! Oh, heeheehee, I can’t, I can’t!” Martin gasped out. At least it didn’t hurt to laugh anymore, even if it did take his strength away when he couldn’t breathe.

With a chuckle, Gonff shook his head. “Alright, alright, I’ll stop—at least ‘til we get you in a proper seat. Up you come, hup! Steady now, Martin, lean up against the wall a moment ‘til your legs catch up with you. There we are! Now, what can you tell me about our first day on the trail to Salamandastron, eh?”

Resuming their slow shuffle, Martin finally caught hold of his giggles and reigned them in. Casting his mind back on that first day of their journey, he smiled wistfully. “That was the day we rescued Chugger, wasn’t it?”

Gonff looked at him strangely. “Who?”

Martin gave him a longsuffering look. “Chugger, the young squirrel we saved from being eaten from the Flitchaye?”

“The _what_?”

“Runty weasels with knockout smoking herbs? Ring any bells?” Martin prompted, smiling, sure that Gonff was just teasing him again.

There was a beat of silence, however, and Martin noticed an uncharacteristic droop in Gonff’s whiskers. The little mousethief took in a deep breath. “Martin, I have no idea what you’re talking about. The only thing that happened our first day was when we saw those three vermin following us. I suppose one of them was a weasel—was his name Flitchaye? I don’t remember myself.”

Martin shook his head, confused and dispirited. “No. I don’t think I would remember his name, either. Perhaps my mind is making up memories to fill in the gaps. Isn’t that something Abbess Germaine said could happen?”

Gonff didn’t like the new dour mood, so he poked Martin in the ribs. “Aye, ‘s a good thing y’have me as yore matey, matey, or I’d be giving those flying pink toadstools another run!”

Martin offered a brief smile, and Gonff wasn’t satisfied.

“Hey now, once I get you settled to lunch, I’ll go find the Abbess and we’ll figure this out. Now c’mon, give me a big whopper of a smile, or I’ll pull out all yore whiskers and use ‘em for shoelaces!”

That did it. Martin was smiling again, and Gonff talked quickly to keep it that way, breaking into song a moment later, and they managed to arrive at the table without any more memory issues. True to his word, after he got Martin set up with a cheese and leek pasty, October ale, and blackberry flan, Gonff slipped away to find Abbess Germaine.

She was easy enough to find, dozing in the midafternoon autumn sunlight just outside Brockhall, watching over the children who were playing nearby. Gonff took off his hat and wrung it fretfully as he cleared his throat. Germaine came awake and took in his worried hovering with a small frown. “Gonff? Is something wrong?” she asked, pulling herself to her feet.

Gonff popped his hat back on his head and stooped to assist her, naturally allowing her to lean on his paw the same way he did with Martin. “It’s nothing terribly urgent, marm, just a concernin’ conversation I had with Martin.”

Germaine grasped his paw and pulled him to a stop in the quiet entryway of Brockhall. “Concerning in what way?” she prompted.

Taking his hat in his claws once more, Gonff shuffled his footpaws anxiously. “We were running through our memory check, as usual, but then he started spoutin’ off names of creatures I’ve never heard of, marm. He was downright convinced of ‘em, too. Thought y’might want to speak with him.”

Germaine patted Gonff’s paw. “Indeed I do. Thank you for fetching me. Where is Martin now?”

“In the dining hall,” Gonff said, offering his paw once more.

“Hm, no, that won’t do,” Germaine decided, leaving Gonff’s side and shuffling down the opposite direction from the dining hall. “Ask Bella to carry him to her study. I’d like to talk with our warrior in private. And _you_ , Gonff, will go to the kitchen and eat until we are finished. I’ll wager a pine nut to an acorn that you’ve not had a decent meal yet today, given the hour you arrived this morning. Shame on you, leaving your pretty wife before breakfast! You go eat now, or she’ll come wailing that we’re working the fat right off your bones keeping our dear warrior alive. And I can walk myself down a hallway, thank you! Go on, now, shoo!”

Gonff grinned ruefully. She may be old, but Germaine’s wits were still as quick as a whip. “Yes, marm.”

Germaine had not been sitting at Bela’s desk for very long before she heard the telltale sounds of an undignified warrior mouse being carried by a badger to the study.

“At _least_ let me walk in myself, Bella, _please_ —”

“And wait five seasons for you to crawl across the study? I think not. Gonff said Germaine would like to see you _now_ , so I will deliver you to your destination.”

“This is so humiliating—”

“Martin, you weren’t able to hold a spoon a few weeks ago. You have come a long way, yes, but it’s going to take a great deal of time until you regain your so-called dignity, young mouse.”

Whatever argument Martin might’ve come back with was left unspoken as Bella walked into the study with him cradled in her arms. He set his jaw firmly and didn’t say a word while she set him in her own overstuffed chair.

Once Martin was settled, Bella dusted her paws off and turned to her old friend. “There. Now then, is there anything else you need?”

“No, that’s all. Thank you kindly for delivering my patient,” Germaine said with that bright, smirky smile of hers. “I will call for you when we’re finished.”

“Very good,” Bella nodded, and she took her leave.

Germaine looked Martin over, smiling at his stiff upright posture. “I do apologize for any discomfort you may have felt, Martin, but I was eager to speak to you.”

Martin nodded and relaxed a touch. “Gonff told you what happened?”

The old Abbess folded her paws on the desk and leaned forward. “He said you spoke of creatures he did not know, but I would like you to give me the details, please.” 

With a nod, Martin explained the scene he remembered—he was travelling with Gonff and Dinny, but they heard the telltale sounds of Flitchaye drums, and upon investigation, they found a male squirrelbabe tied to a post in their camp. Martin described the scene and the rescue effort in great detail, clear up to their own rescue by an otter clan, and Germaine listened. At some point she began asking pointed questions, and it soon became clear that there was a fourth member of their party, even before they’d found the squirrel—a hedgehog maid named Trimp.

“But that doesn’t make sense,” Martin said, clenching his paws into fists anxiously. “There was only Gonff, Dinny, and myself who went to Salamandastron.”

“That’s right,” Germaine agreed. “That’s because you were not going to Salamandastron when you found the squirrel.”

Martin’s ears twitched. “What?”

Germaine sat back in her seat and folded her paws into her habit sleeves. “You are not remembering what has happened. No, you are Seeing what _will_ happen, in a future season.”

There was a beat of silence, and then Martin reeled back in his seat for a moment. “I don’t understand. How is that possible?”

“I don’t know,” Germaine shrugged. “But it is. You may not remember this vision tomorrow, or it may haunt you until it comes to fruition. I do not understand how or why these visions come to somebeasts, but I know that they do.”

Blinking rapidly, Martin shook his head. “I don’t understand. ‘Tis impossible to . . . to _see_ the future! You said before that the mind can make up memories in place of old ones!”

“Yes. But that is not what this is.”

They sat in silence for a few moments as it fully sank in for the young warrior. He sat just as stiffly as before, resting his paws on his knees, but now with his head bowed shaking with silent tears, he looked terribly small in Bella's huge chair. It was rare that Germaine considered Martin a youngbeast, but here, in this moment, she suddenly remembered that he was scarcely a few seasons into maturity. He had an old head on young shoulders, and he seemed to fully understand the weight of what Germaine had told him.

When Martin spoke, his voice was heavy with emotion. “I don’t want this.”

Germaine sighed, “It may not be for you to decide.”

In a surge of energy, Martin shot to his feet. “I am not some magic fox, Germaine! I am a _mouse_! A silly, injured little mouse who can barely remember his own friends’ names! Stop making me out to be some—some _mystic_ and let me live my life in _peace_!”

He turned to the door and made it two steps before his knees buckled and dropped him to the floor. Abbess Germaine rushed to his side, calling, “Martin, Martin you listen to me! You are still weak, and it would be _very_ unwise to strain yourself right now!”

Germaine knelt in front of Martin and helped him sit up, and then she took his face in her paws and lectured him sternly. “I _know_ it’s a shock, I _know_ you don’t want this, but if you suffer from the warrior’s bloodwrath—and you have every symptom indicating that you do—then cultivating this gift of sight may be your _best hope_ of living a life of peace. Do you understand?”

“No,” Martin breathed, eyes misting with tears. “I don’t understand at all, Mother Abbess. I don’t understand why I’m still _living_. What more must I do before I may rest?”

Germaine wiped the tears from his face with the gentleness of a true mother. “Because, Martin, someday there will be a squirrelbabe named Chugger, and he will die if you are not there to save him. There may be countless others counting on you, but the fates have decided to show you this one child whose life hangs in the balance with your own. Live, Martin. Live and grow strong again. Save him.”

Martin grasped her wrists and closed his eyes. Then, taking in a deep breath, looked up at her. “I will, Mother Abbess. I will save him.”

“Thank you, Martin. I know you will.” Germaine pulled herself to her feet and dragged Martin up with her, shouldering his arm, and helping him back to Bella’s chair. Once she had deposited him there, she gathered up a nearby blanket and tucked it around the young warrior. “Now, you may rest.”

Too physically and emotionally exhausted to protest, Martin snuggled into the chair and closed his eyes.

Germaine shuffled back to Bella’s desk, where she located some ink and parchment which she hoped Bella would not miss, and she began to write the scene from the future that Martin had described.

Poor Martin. He just wanted to be done with all the attention and the idolizing, to live a quiet, peaceful life. Although Germaine herself foresaw this very wish fulfilled in the distant future, there was much yet to do.

After Martin calmed down a bit over the next few days, he and Germaine spoke again and agreed to keep it all quiet. His foresight of the squirrelbabe faded from his memory shortly thereafter. Most of his visions only stayed with him a few days, they came to find out in time, and Germaine quietly kept a record of everything he told her. It became quite useful when construction on the new abbey began in earnest, since Martin had seen it many times by then, and his visions provided details that helped speed the work along quite quickly.

The warrior’s memory of the past, however, remained a quagmire. Speaking with Timballisto helped, but within a few days Martin would forget the entire conversation. Germaine urged Martin to write it all down while he could remember it, but the warrior flatly refused. He always kept his conversations with TB very private, and never spoke a word of his past to his friends. Germaine didn’t understand it.

After TB passed that winter, there was none to help him—by spring, Marin had no recollection of his childhood whatsoever. At times, particularly after he had regained his full strength, Martin forgot he had memory problems at all.

Gonff was his rock during this time. The little thief always seemed to know when to work a memory back up or when to let it slide, and a full year after Martin’s brush with death, his memories became more stable and lasting. His foresight began to diminish at this point, but Germaine thought that was perhaps a great mercy. The sheer amount of wars, bloodshed, and intrigue that would come to their abbey in future seasons was astounding, and it weighed heavily on Martin when he saw it. Thus it was that when Martin inevitably forgot each vision, Germaine decided not to show him her record if it. She alone shouldered the burden of knowing their future, but it was a small price to pay to allow him to live a few seasons of peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. That took an unexpected angsty turn. Huh. 
> 
> Inspiration for Timbal’s part from [this tumblr post ](https://theredwallrecorder.tumblr.com/post/164270600809/tlol-lost-memory) by theredwallrecorder.
> 
> I'm probably just regurgitating everyone else's incredible theories at this point, but oh well.


End file.
